Iberia Won 50

Iberia Won 50

XXXII.

 

And Nial wept his faithful comrade dead,

Like woman wept--nor blame his hero-soul,

For many a fervid kindness done and said

Rushed o’er his mind, and swept to memory’s goal,

Till tears in torrents gushed beyond controul.

Oh, tears are generous, noble! Tears became

Achilles’ cheek, when Death Patroclus stole;

His frame sharp anguish shook who shook the frame

Of Troy--nor, Nial, blush that thou didst weep the same!

 

 

XXXIII.

 

Three days, three nights, Sebastian’s sack went on;

And as in fire the earth will sink at last,

And fire avenge the deeds that then were done,

Through fiery scourge so San Sebastian past.

Raged o’er the town, urged by the Atlantic blast,

The red relentless flame, and to and fro

Swept like a desert courser, lurid cast

Its glare o’er Ocean, flashed above--below,

Till all was smouldering heaps of desolation, wo!

 

 

XXXIV.

 

Biscayan Nereids! fill your urns with tears;

With scent of gore the bloodhound’s on the trail.

Mourn, Uruméan Naiads, plunged in fears,

For shrieks portentous load the sighing gale

From virgins all dishevelled, lorn, and pale;

And stab and death-shot end what leers begin,

And strong men fall o’erpowered, and seniors frail

Are slaughtered with the babes of all their kin,

And vilest passions loosed--the Carnival of Sin!

 

 

XXXV.

 

Oh, spectral portent of Calamity!

Oh, ghost of violated Beauty smeared

With blood and fiery blackness. See it, see

Where War’s wild wave hath swept o’er homes endeared--

All, all by Havoc’s burning ploughshare seared!

An awful silence reigns, more horrid than

The late artillery’s roar--a trophy reared

To ruin in each street, that crimson ran.

A plague infects the air from piled, putrescent man!

 

 

XXXVI.

 

Ay, thousand corses, shroudless, graveless lie,

And flout Heaven’s nostril with their carrion hue.

The iron hail is scattered far and nigh,

And earth unnumbered fragments sadly strew:

Wrecked lares--torn apparel--arms that slew

Till butchery broke them, headgear, shell, and shot,

But ah! no living thing--yes, one I view--

A haggard maniac, crouched in loneliest spot.

The sole survivor he where slaughtered thousands rot!

 

 

XXXVII.

 

Nor war’s dread engines yet have done their worst,

For Mont’ Orgullo still by Rey is held;

And o’er that stronghold falls a doom accurst,

For ere he leave the Castle must be shelled.

Nine days of horror by our cannon knelled

Bring death to our own captives--on the tenth

When Honour, grisly demon’s voice is quelled

By glut of gore, he proudly yields at length,

Walks forth to beat of drum, and owns Britannia’s strength.

 

 

XXXVIII.

 

What art thou, Man, that mak’st a pride of strife,

A glory of the sufferings of thy kind?

That dar’st profanely sport with human life,

And ev’n in cruelty canst greatness find?

Oh, steeped in folly, oh, intensely blind,

And worshipping false Honour more than God,

Of beasts derided is thy boasted mind!

Fawn on thy gilded butchers, kiss the rod,

But deem not scenes like these have Heaven’s approving nod.

 

 

XXXIX.

 

Not these thy triumphs, England! Ne’er again

Thy soul shall covet save of Locrian power

And intellect the glory! Beaconing men

To happiness be thine--still Freedom’s tower,

Still making every scowling despot cower

By labouring mind alone! let Justice wrest

The axe from War, and give to man her dower.

Plant, plant the olive pure from East to West,

And bare not, save compelled, the sword ’gainst human breast!

 

 

XL.

 

Salustian quick regained his wonted strength,

Such strength as leaves the feebler tide of life,

And near Ernani--moved of moderate length

The journey--to a house with comforts rife,

His patrimony fair, where sound of strife

There comes not. Grassy slopes and orchards gay,

And sweetest daughter to replace a wife

Embalmed in deathless memory, fill the day

With gentlest exercise, and health resumes its sway.

 

 

XLI.

 

And Nial oft on fiery steed doth ride

O’er the brief space that sunders them, to mark

The old man’s progress. Oft bright eyes replied

In mutual glances blithe as song of lark

At each returning. Soft, though lustrous dark,

Beamed Isabel on Nial’s blue-eyed smile.

Salustian saw full clear the kindling spark,

Nor chid the flame that grew and spread the while,

Till Nial’s plighted troth was echoed without guile.

 

 

XLII.

 

Her soul was all absorbed in his--her life

Was cast, since meeting, in another mould.

The cloud or sunshine, calm repose or strife,

Must be together shared, the bliss untold

Or mortal grief must Fate for both unfold!

No thought her bosom entered but was Nial’s;

Self-consecrate to him, her champion bold--

His--his--though Destiny pour all its phials,

His--his ’mid love’s best joys or life’s acutest trials!

 

 

XLIII.

 

Now tranquilly beneath the autumnal sun,

Whose beams the mountain breezes tempered bland,

Salustian, Isabel from sorrow won

Full many an hour by wings angelic fanned;

And oft within their lawn doth Nial stand,

And pluck the golden apple from the bough,

Or cull grapes purple-clustering for the hand

Of Isabel--now plum or almond--now

The green and luscious fig, the peach with blushing brow.

 

 

XLIV.

 

And quiet smiled the old man, pleased to see

A pair so formed for mutual happiness,

So beautiful in different quality,

Whom destined wedlock’s bonds ere long to bless;

And as he feasted on their comeliness,

At thought of Carlos and of Isidor

A tear would gathering come--yet not the less

He poured on these his deep affection’s store;

But rather, centred thus, his spirit entwined them more.

 

 

XLV.

 

Now all his momentary ire had ceased

’Gainst Britain’s sons, whose high and generous hearts

Partook no stain of deeds which are the feast

Of felon-natures wielding Victory’s darts.

And when for war again young Nial starts,

Salustian gives his blessing: Isabel

With many a tear a treasured chain imparts

Of Isidora’s hair and her’s: “Twill dwell

Next to my heart,” he said, as sobbed the maid “Farewell!”

 

 

XLVI.

 

But, ah, the town Isaiah’s voice recals

When mourned the awful prophet Zion’s doom,

With battering nations camped around her walls,

Till flames devouring chase the midnight gloom.

Wo to thee, Ariel, wo, gigantic tomb!

The Lord of Hosts shall visit thee with storm

And thunder;--vengeful fires thy pride consume,

In gory dust is laid thy beauteous form,

And as a dream of night thy agonies shall swarm!

 

 

XLVII.

 

In after days, when Isidora long

Had slept the icy slumber of the dead,

The memory of her Beauty and her wrong

O’er her still honoured name a lustre shed;

And many a lover with her story fed

The tuneful echoes of Biscaya’s plain,

Told how all crimson ran her stony bed,

How passed to bliss the maiden without stain,

And thus her early doom preserved in simple strain:

 

 

The Basque Lily.

 

Mourn Cantabria’s lily fair,

Blooming soft like young Aurora;

Broken lies and bleeding there

Beauty’s flowret, Isidora!

Honour’s martyr-crown she prized

Life before and living splendour.

Ah, how fearfully disguised

Is that blossom once so tender.

Vascongada, mourn!